Russian Roulette
by TheMillionthMind
Summary: Nick's fed up with Ellis' immortality complex and intends to show him just what it means to live and to die. Rated T for some adult concepts, something that COULD be taken as slash/yaoi/homosexuality between Ellis and Nick, and cursing.


((I wrote this to take a small break from writing Reliance and step away from the angst for a bit. Problem was, I only ended up writing more angst. Oh well, I'm way more satisfied with this one than Reliance. There's a Christmas fic coming tonight, and then I'll be back to work on Reliance for any of you who actually give two shits.

Disclaimer: I don't own L4D2 or anything it entails. I do not intend to profit from this little piece of writing. Please don't sue me.))

They're sitting at a table, a gun atop it, bullet next to the gun. There's a pack of cigarettes next to Nick's right elbow, which is resting firmly on the table. He pulls a cigarette from the pack and slides it to the opposite side of the table, where Ellis stops it with the palm of his hand, then shakes his head and passes it back.

"You're no fun, Overalls." Nick says through letting out his first puff on the cigarette.

"Just get to the point already." Ellis doesn't look pleased by the sight before him, but Nick has posed a challenge, and the boy's just stupid enough to oblige. He's starting to regret it by now.

"You'd better chicken out while you can." Nick answers, absentmindedly picking the gun and bullet up. "If you wimp out when the going gets good, I will punch you."

"Better'n a bullet through the skull, Nick." Ellis defends calmly, though he does not move from his spot, and Nick takes it as a cue to get moving before the kid really does back out.

"Does it really make that much difference in a zombie apocalypse?" There's an unnerving heaviness in the con-man's voice as he lifts his hands into the air, dropping the bullet down from a few inches above the gun. Deft fingers flick the chamber and it snaps shut, revolving with several resounding clicks that echo through the room like actual gunfire and send shudders of reluctance down Ellis' spine.

"Maybe not, but I ain't lettin' a bunch of mindless zombies kill me."

Nick observes the silver gun from eye level, puffing on his cigarette with his free hand. "It doesn't matter to me. Things won't be like before, the world's going to be fucking useless if it survives all of this."

Ellis is watching the older man, and he swallows nervously as his eyes trace the the two fingers that run along the thin barrel, cigarette hanging out of the con-man's mouth lazily. It's terrifying, the calm that reverberates through the room and the mechanic feels horribly out of place in the middle of it all. His stomach is in knots and his hands are balled into fists on his lap. His eyes are fixed on the gun before him and he's afraid to look away, because all at once, he realizes just how little he knows about this man who calls himself Nick. He borders on regret, but for some reason unknown to even himself, remains firmly planted in the uncomfortable plastic chair.

Ellis notices upon observing that the chamber contains six rounds, and one out of those six rounds will be the death of them. He suddenly feels very sick.

"I'll go first." Nick takes an unusually long pull on his cigarette, then lifts the gun to his skull and Ellis is shocked again by how little the older man cares as he pulls the trigger. The chamber rotates in slow motion and speeds up again when the refreshing 'click' fills the silence and lets both men know that so far, Nick is winning.

"Are you suicidal or somethin'?" Ellis questions, throat dry as if he'd just gulped down a massive glass of pure southern cotton, unnerved by the calm that just fucking _pours_ from the con-man's side of the table.

"Is now really the time to ask something like that?" The older man questions and passes the gun Ellis' way. He can feel the trembling fingers make brief contact with his own as the gun is pulled from his grip. The boy looks uncertain, but then again, who wouldn't? This was the worst kind of gambling, and it wasn't one Nick could honestly say he'd dabbled much in. But he wouldn't admit that part aloud.

Ellis' hands shake like leaves in autumn wind and for a second, he just looks down at the gun in his hand. The silver contrasts with the color of his flesh, but both start to share a familiar, slick sheen as his palms begin to sweat, and finally, he starts to lift the gun.

"It helps if you actually stay calm." There's no reassurance to Nick's voice and Ellis suddenly realizes that the last person he wants to gamble on his life with is this guy. The con-man just _oozes_ calm and class and it's more frightening because the southerner just can't fucking _relate_. He can't laugh it off and there's no enjoyment. Just fear.

He contemplates backing out, and then his eyes meet Nick's.

The gun's at his temple and he squeezes his eyes shut, finger tightening around the trigger.

'CLICK.'

The noise is so loud against his skull that Ellis actually sees himself falling off the chair, stream of blood pouring from his head, gun dropping from his hand immediately. The chair clatters and falls over with him and his body makes a lifeless 'THUD' against the ground.

When none of that actually happens, the mechanic realizes he's still alive and lets out a long sigh. The score is tied and he's scared out of his fucking mind while Nick just eyes him calmly through a cloud of puffed-out cigarette smoke, as if nothing has happened. Does he think he actually looks cool?

Two out of six. Ellis swallows, and it makes a protesting grunting sound as it scratches its way down his throat. He slides the gun back to Nick's side of the table, looking away.

"Scared, yet?" Nick questions, and for a split second, there's a look on his face—almost a grin, but not quite the dark one Ellis had braced himself for.

"Why'd you ask me to do this?" Ellis wipes his hand along his thigh, spreading sweat to his overalls and it returns quickly in a thin layer on his palm.

"Because I can't stand you." The words don't come out quite right and they burn in the smoke that leaks from another puff on his cigarette, seething and causing the kid across the table to wince and recoil. Nick corrects himself, "You're just a kid, but you're too immature for your age." He raises the gun to his skull and pulls the trigger before he's finished, and Ellis is both relieved and horrified that it clicks rather than firing. "You're not invincible, and I'm tired of you thinking you are."

Ellis bites his lip and takes the gun back. It's foreign in his hands, and he feels as if he might be sick.

"Didn't notice you felt that way." Ellis speaks with attempted calm, but his voice falters with the last couple of words and sizzles on his tongue and he recoils again.

"Well, now you know, Captain Oblivious." The retort is husky and rough from the cigarette smoke—a menthol, though Nick is honestly not too fond of menthols. The mint just puts a bad taste in his mouth, but for now, it's better than nothing.

Ellis scowls, teeth grinding together fiercely, and raises the gun to his temple again, almost immediately pulling the trigger. It clicks, and Ellis practically throws the revolver Nick's way, hunching over until his forehead hits the table. He's sick to his stomach and can't vomit and wants to scream but he knows he shouldn't. There's one thing reminding him it's almost over.

Two left. Nick seems to realize this, and he takes one last drag on the cigarette and puts it out against the table, flicking it behind himself lazily.

"Fifty-fifty." He says halfheartedly, as if he really doesn't give two shits that his life depends on a fucking gun. "This is where it gets good."

"Nick." The con-man sighs and shoots Ellis a frustrated look. The kid has lifted his forehead from the table and is gawking at the older man with a look of pure, unadulterated horror. His skin has paled and almost looks pasty and he looks like anybody but himself right now.

"You're playing for keeps, sport." Nick hisses. "Don't wuss out on me, now."

"Don't pull that trigger." Ellis shakes his head and stands up. "Two chances, Nick! Two chances!"

"And then what?" There's a slight tilt to Nick's head and he's frowning impatiently at the boy. "What happens then, Ellis?"

"What else!?" He demands, hand lifting up to come in contact with his forehead, and the result is just cold. His hand is ice against his forehead and he's shaking. "You _die_!"

"Glad you're starting to get the picture." Without hesitation, the gun raises and this time, it's Nick Ellis is seeing dying right before him. That ridiculous half-assed grin plastered on his lips, skin paling as he almost blends in with his suit and the boy nearly screams, stumbling back, arms dropping limply to his sides, and the gun just _clicks_. And everything stops.

There's only one shot left and Nick is grinning, holding the gun out in Ellis' direction.

"Too bad, Overalls." He lights up another cigarette in some disgusting victory ritual and despite the obvious hesitance in the southern boy, the kid takes the gun.

His hands are slick against the metal and he almost drops the weapon at first, but he manages not to, gawking down at the metal again. The realization echoes through his head, reverberating against his eardrums with a roar that sounds like thunder and he almost drops the gun again.

He's going to die.

_He's going to die._

"Drop out, Ellis." Nick suddenly says, and the change of tune has the boy utterly shocked. "You know you're not ready to die, now sit your ass back down and give me the gun."

Ellis' jaw drops. He looks completely at a loss, and suddenly, he's angry, and then he's back to being shocked, and fuck if he's not sure why he isn't relieved. His mouth closes, then opens again and closes once more when he realizes he's not sure what he's supposed to say.

"You're not gonna pull the trigger." Nick speaks halfheartedly and breathes in heavily on his cigarette. "So sit down and stop beating around the bush."

"What're you—" Ellis shakes his head.

"Give me the gun."

"No."

"Give me the gun." Nick repeats and holds his hand out impatiently.

"You gave me a challenge, and I ain't backin' out!"

Nick's at his feet in nothing flat and the cigarette is out, laying squished on the table. He seizes the gun from Ellis' hand and drops it on the table, then pins the boy against a wall.

"What's gonna happen if I let you have that last turn again, Ellis?" Nick's face is unnervingly close to Ellis' and the mechanic can smell the smoke on his breath. The menthol tickles his nostrils and makes him want to sneeze, and best of all, he realizes how much he appreciates his senses all of a sudden.

"I…On account of there's only one round left…"

"Say it." Nick hisses and his hands tighten around the boy's wrists.

"I-I'll die." The words sting on Ellis's tongue and his stomach tightens and he remembers just how bad death is and just how much he doesn't want to die. He's not invincible and he already _knew_ that, but the impact doesn't lessen by any means. In fact, if he weren't so caught up right now, he might've cried.

"Exactly." And with that, Nick steps back and tilts his left arm downward. There's a slight shuffling and a soft 'ping!' as the bullet slides from his sleeve and comes in contact with the ground. He raises his eyebrows, then looks up to meet Ellis' gaze.

"Waitaminnit…" The boy's jaw drops and both men are sure they hear it clang to the ground and he's eyeing the bullet as if he could've sworn it was in the gun and…and…

He punches Nick.

Nick just laughs.


End file.
